Mickey Orswell's Trip
by pennamethathasn'tbeentaken
Summary: Mickey Orswell is your average girl, if your average girl is a werewolf. She's just ingested a shit-ton of pot brownies, and boy oh boy is she ready for whatever comes next. Unless that thing is Sam Winchester looking for his friends. Or his son? Or his boyfriend? Honestly, Mickey's having a hard time following.
1. Prologue: Painting the Picture

**Prologue: Painting the Picture**

Picture this: A five-mile dirt road, winding and bumpy with absolutely nothing to look at besides trees on all sides. At mile .5, you lose sight of the road behind you. At mile 4, you can vaguely see a run-down shack. There's a trampoline to its left, about two times the size of the shack. You've never been on a trampoline before.

You're Sam Winchester, and you're here for business.

You're Sam Winchester, and your brother is a righteous man. Your brother is a tool for a Heaven that's falling apart. Your brother's body has been taken over by an angel. This isn't the first time something like this has happened. You're tired. You've been driving for hours. You are not in the mood to deal with all this.

Picture this: A small, one-butt kitchenette. The scent of brownies, hot and fresh, just out of the oven. Sunlight streaming through a crack in the walls. No doorways, just the kitchenette, and then what one might consider a living room.

A recycling bin face-down in the center of the 'living room'. That's the coffee table. Hot brownies on a cracked plate on a face-down recycling bin that doubles as a coffee table. Next to that, a large pile of clothes. Or a chair, depending on who you ask.

On that chair is a woman. Mickey Orswell, nineteen-year-old werewolf. Not quite homeless if a one-bedroom, broken-down shack in the middle of the woods counts as a home. She's had four brownies already. She's too high to care if she's homeless. These brownies are fucking amazing.

There's a television in front of her, probably the nicest thing she owns. She's hooked up a PlayStation2 to it, barely running anymore after all these years, and she's about ready to have the weirdest gaming experience she's had since she played Dance Dance Revolution with the demon who gave Billie Eilish a music career in exchange for her soul. Cool dude.

Unfortunately for Mickey Orswell, Sam Winchester has just knocked on the door.


	2. Chapter One: The Giraffe Comes A Knockin

**Chapter One: The Giraffe Comes A Knockin'**

"Holy shit."

There's a giraffe at her front door.

Mickey Orswell has never seen a giraffe in person before. She's seen pictures, and she's always thought they looked cute if a little goofy. She had no idea giraffes could glare. Or knock. Or pull out an FBI badge and ask to come in.

Holy shit. That's a human person. She has to blink and twitch violently in order to pull herself back to reality. Maybe the brownies were too strong.

The man who was previously a giraffe seems to be trying to hide confusion and possibly concern under a mask of professionalism. He's not very good at it. It's fine, though, Mickey figures, because she's in the mood for something complex.

"Excuse me?" Giraffe Man says, taking a cautious step forward. His eye contact is intense, prolonged, and unnerving. His shirt has a stain on it.

Mickey scrunches her eyebrows together and asks out of pure curiosity, "How tall are you?"

"What?"

"Sorry." Her eyes widened involuntarily. "I mean, like, if I needed to fix my roof but didn't have a ladder, could you be my ladder?"

A pause. Then, "What?" again.

Mickey looks at Giraffe Man as if he's the most stupid human she's ever come across. "Like, okay. Say I had a cat, but he was stuck in a tree, like seven feet up there or whatever. Could you grab my cat for me?"

"You have a cat?"

"Well, no."

Mickey watches Giraffe Man clench his teeth so hard that his jawline sharpens to a visible point. He purses his lips. Takes a deep breath through his nose. Lets it out slowly. He says, "I need to ask you a few questions about a man who went missing in these woods two nights ago."

What a rude man, demanding answers while failing to deliver the same thing.

Weirdly, Mickey suddenly realizes for what seems like the first time that the man in front of her is really tall. Giraffe-like, one might say. She's suddenly hyper-aware of her own height. Has she always been this short? Oh, God. The universe is huge and the Earth is less than a spec on the cosmic scale and Mickey is barely a spec on the Earth scale. Everyone's dying. It's just a matter of time.

Mickey asks, "What's this man's name?"

Giraffe Man responds, "Jack."


	3. Chapter 2: High on Humor

**Chapter Two: High on Humor**

Sam Winchester has been driving for two days straight. He hasn't stopped to sleep; he's barely stopped to eat; the only time he even took what one might consider a break, it hadn't been much of a choice.

Bathroom breaks are not optional.

Because of this - 'this' meaning his lack of sleep, food, and y'know, proper care - he doesn't hesitate all that much when the teenager who lives by herself in a broken-down shack in the middle of the woods offers him a home-made brownie. Who could blame him for a momentary lapse in judgment?

And, anyway, she seems alright. If a little twitchy.

Or really goddamn twitchy.

She's definitely guilty of something, now that he's thinking about it.

He's been sat down on an upside-down recycling bin that she called her 'coffee table', facing the surprisingly nice flat-screen television as the girl plays some kind of video game. Sam examines her red eyes as she immerses herself.

Twitchy. Brownies. Red eyes.

Things are starting to add up.

Time seems to go in slow motion as Sam opens his mouth and says, "Are there drugs in these brownies?" His voice sounds different than it did before, he notices. Not as deep as he remembers. Not as masculine. Actually, his voice may have always sounded like this.

The girl pauses the game to look at him, her head moving about as fast as a sloth in a pool full of Jell-O. She squints at him, raises her eyebrows, makes a face. "Dude," she starts. "How did you get into my house?"

"You let me in," Sam responds. "I think."

She lets out a long, sluggish 'ohh', nodding along to whatever thoughts were running through her head. "I like your hair," she says, out-of-the-blue.

"Thank you." Sam starts snickering in preparation for what he thinks will be one of his best jokes since that one he said to Dean about …. About …. Well, about something he can't remember, but it was very funny. "I grew it myself."

The girl, confused, says, "what?"

"'Cuz I grew it myself," Sam explains patiently.

"Oh!" The girl responds, dissolving into a fit of giggles. Sam joins in. "That's funny. I get it now."

"Yeah."

"You're really funny."

"I know."


	4. Chapter Three: Jack and his Big Brain

**Jack and his Big Brain**

Jack Kline-Winchester-Morningstar-Whateverthefuck has found himself in a uniquely unfortunate situation due to no fault of his own, he swears on his biological father's grave. Thank Chuck that bitch is dead.

He squints his brown, doe-eyes at the map in his hands and flips it hopefully right-side-up, but probably upside down, hands shaking with anxiety, beads of sweat forming on his temple along with a headache he now gets every time he reads. It must be a symptom of having his powers taken away.

Jack groans and buries his head in his hands. Despite the incredibly detailed, perhaps too detailed, directions he was given, he's still lost. He wishes he learned how to read a map before running away. He wishes Dean taught him how to read a map before he let himself get possessed by Jack's uncle, wishes Dean had taught him how to drive before he disappeared without a trace, wishes Dean was here to tell him everything was going to be okay.

Figuratively, and quite literally, Jack is lost.

_Three Hours Previous_

"-and then he just showed up like 'WOOSH', just completely out of nowhere, and I was like 'yo, dude, how'd you do that', and he was like 'I'm a fucking angel, man, how goddamn cool is that?', and I was like 'no shit?' and he was like-"

Jack, for his credit, really tried his best to pay attention to what Mickey Orswell had to say. He felt something like anger creep up his throat as this girl casually described the angelic encounter, unbelievably jealous and not quite understanding why someone like Michael would approach someone like Mickey Orswell.

"-turns out, he's building an army and is looking specifically for werewolves, which is why he came to me-"

He's suddenly interested.

"You're a werewolf?" Jack asked.

Mickey blinked at Jack as if just realizing what she said. She took a relatively deep breath in, said "Not yet," and let her breath out.

"Not yet?"

"Yeah."

"What do you mean 'Not yet'?"

"Well," Mickey started, looking at Jack as if he were stupid. "I haven't gone through puberty yet."

Jack is only two years old, so he can't say this for certain, but he's pretty sure Mickey Orswell should have already gone through puberty at nineteen-years-old.

_Currently_

The weather is just about as good as it can be, but Jack still finds himself huddling into his own body, shivering. It's a lack of food, a lack of sleep, of love. It's not a lack of physical warmth. Despite himself, he finds himself wishing he had told Sam or Castiel where he was going so they could comfort him.

Jack's anxiety just about reaches its peak before he's jolted out of his mind by the sound of a car door slamming. He looks up from his feet, and it's almost as if Chuck heard his shallow breathing.

There Sam Winchester stands, haloed by the sun behind him, uncharacteristically goofy smile on his face. Jack figured Sam'd be angry when he found him. He certainly didn't expect this cartoon-character standing in front of him, limbs loose, feet stumbling, undeniably out of his right mind.

"Jaaaaack!" Sam shouts, and now Jack is in Sam Winchester's arms, no longer panicking, no longer alone. He can't help but hug Sam back.

It's nice to not be alone anymore.


End file.
